


If Constellations Tell Our Stories

by ghostofgatsby



Series: Of Stars and Skies Above [4]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Bruises, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Multi, Space AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 13:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12818115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: Ross is halfway inside the underbelly of a plane when he gets the phone call. He extracts himself and hooks his wrench in his belt, feeling his pocket vibrate. His grubby hands fumble his phone out of his overalls. "Trott, mate. What's up?"Trott's voice is tired. "You need to come meet me down at medical.""Medical? Why, did something happen?" Ross rolls out from under the plane, heart thudding in his chest."Smith got in a fight again."





	If Constellations Tell Our Stories

**Author's Note:**

> This was very old fic, sitting in my docs, mostly finished except for some bare editing.
> 
> cws: Minor Injuries, mentions of Fighting/Bullying, mentions of homophobia/biphobia. Bruises, hurtcomfort  
> If I need to tag anything else, let me know.
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/141415868928  
> space au apartments-Chicago
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/11/24/if-constellations-tell-our-stories-ghostofgatsby

Ross is halfway inside the underbelly of a plane when he gets the phone call. He extracts himself and hooks his wrench in his belt, feeling his pocket vibrate. His grubby hands fumble his phone out of his overalls as he checks the caller id.

It's Trott. Why would Trott be calling him when he knew he was working in the hangar?

He answers.

"Trott, mate, I'm halfway under a plane. What’s up?"

"Yeah, I know...sorry, Ross." Trott's voice is tired. "You need to come meet me down at medical."

"Medical? Why, did something happen?" Ross rolls out from under the plane, heart thudding in his chest.

"Smith got in a fight again. I walked in and caught the tail end of it, then walked him down to the clinic."

"Shit. How bad is he?" Ross swallows thickly.

Trott says nothing for a minute. The worry twists in Ross' gut.

“I’m not sure yet,” Trott sighs, “The nurse is still checking him out. But he looks pretty shit, mate.”

"I'll be there in ten."

 

“He got ganged up on,” Trott says, tapping the heel of his shoe on the linoleum floor, “Five other pilots versus Smith. Dislocated his jaw, and battered him up. Bruised his ribs on his right side.”

“Shit...” Ross exhales.

The waiting room is devoid of patients this afternoon. It’s only the two of them, staring at a doorway, waiting for any other news.

Trott sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe if I hadn't...”

Ross looks over at him. “Hadn’t what?”

“If I hadn't told him to keep his mouth shut...”

“No,” Ross puts his hand on Trott’s shoulder, “Smith would have gotten the shit beaten out of him regardless. If they ganged up on him, they were planning this.”

Trott nods in acquiescence. “I know they started it, not him. Or so he said before the med techs took him back.”

“Those dicks would have picked a fight anyway. Honestly, it could have been worse if Smith provoked them even more.”

Trott shrugs.

Ross squeezes his shoulder. “It has nothing to do with what you said.”

One of the nurses turns and walks down the hall towards them. Ross lets go of Trott and they both turn to face her.

“Are you ‘Trott’?”

Trott nods. “Yes, I am. Did everything check out okay?”

“Well, there are no broken ribs, only bruising. His dislocated jaw we put back in place. He'll be pretty sore for a few days, so make sure he takes it easy- bed rest and no strenuous exercise for a week, at least. Ice for three days, and then switch to heat. Keep on top of the painkillers.” The nurse looks down at the clipboard in her hand, and unclips a stapled paper bag from the top. She hands the bag to Trott. Paper and bottles rattle inside. “He's been prescribed vicodin for his jaw pain, make sure he takes it every four to six hours, and not on an empty stomach. Rotate doses with ibuprofen. You might want to stick to soups and soft foods, until it gets easier for him to chew. Everything you need to know should be in the instructions provided.”

“Can we...” Ross gestures towards the hallway Trott had said Smith disappeared to.

The nurse nods. “You're free to see him now. He's still a bit out of it from the pain medication, but he'll come down from that in fifteen minutes or so. If he experiences any increasing chest pains, or there's any sign of a concussion, take him to see a doctor.”

“Thank you so much,” Ross says.

The nurse gave a small smile. “Of course. You're free to take him home once he feels up to walking. If you need anything else before you go, let me or another person on staff know.”

She leaves the room towards another set of hallways. Trott and Ross walk off in search of Smith, passing a few roaming nurses checking up on patients. They find Smith in an open room with a wall-length curtain pulled aside, laying back on a padded bench looking miserable. His face is discolored, turning black and blue.

“Hey. How you feeling?” Ross asks quietly.

“Out ‘f it.” He looks it. A singular pillow is propping up Smith’s head. His half-lidded eyes stare back rather vacantly.

“'S not the firs' time I've gotten pounded by five guys, is it?” Smith says with a small grin.

Ross rolls his eyes.

Trott sighs and sits down on the edge of the bench. He takes Smith’s hand. “When you feel up to it, we'll get you home.”

“No class?” His eyes flutter closed.

“No, sunshine. Gotta take care of you, after all.” Trott strokes his thumb back and forth across the back of Smith's hand.

Smith hums, and the smile slowly slips from his face. "'m sorry. Wasn't me this time."

"It's alright. We'll talk about it later," Trott shushes him, "Don't strain yourself by talking."

Ross pulls a stray chair closer to Smith’s side. He gently kisses his hair and sits down, waiting.

 

It feels like a long journey to get home, as Smith limps with Ross supporting him. The longer Smith is awake, the more exhausted he is. Once they reach the apartment, they help him out of his clothes and dress him in sweatpants and a zip hoodie- easier on his bruised ribs to take on and off.

Smith passes out as soon as his head hits the pillow, and Ross frowns down at the bruises on Smith's face. He pulls up the blanket and tucks it around Smith’s shoulders.

“They got it all on footage,” Trott whispers, “The fight.”

Ross looks over at Trott where he's perched on the end of the bed.

"The five of them were sent to the dean's office, while we went to the med bay."

"Is it over, then?" Ross asks.

Trott shakes his head. "I don't know. Most of the guys who were harassing us were other pilots. Engineering techs don't seem to have an issue."

"I've never had an issue," Ross murmurs.

Trott smiles bitterly. "You pass for straight. Most people think it's just Smith and I that are together, and not you."

Ross shakes his head. “Bisexual erasure can suck a dick.”

“So you’d like to hear all the shit we get?” Trott asks bitterly.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Ross frowns.

They sit there together for several minutes, watching Smith sleep.

“Cup of tea?” Ross sighs heavily, moving to stand.

Trott nods, his expression saddened. “Please.”

 

Smith makes a protesting noise as Ross tugs the textbook out of his hands.

“You’re supposed to be _resting_. Not _studying_ ,” he orders. He sets the book aside and hands Smith the bowl of soup he brought him.

“I’ve got an aeronautics exam coming up, I can’t just sit here and-”

“You can and you will. It’s not going to help you any if you keep stressing out.” Ross tucks the blankets around Smith a little more and brushes the hair out of his eyes.

Smith frowns heavily instead of grinding his teeth. He cradles the soup bowl in his hands and starts to eat. “When does Trott get home?” he asks.

Ross glances at his watch and sits down beside Smith on the bed. “Half an hour, maybe. Not sure what he’s working on today.”

Smith nods, swirling his spoon through the soup. “Let me guess- he’s been guilt tripping himself since I got the shit beaten out of me.”

Ross gives him a look. “Course he is. That’s Trott for you. Something’s wrong? Time to blame myself, because that’s logical!” He scoffs.

Smith stares at his soup, appetite lost. Eating was difficult because he had to take it slowly, minding his bruised ribs. “I feel like I fucked that up, Ross. Like I need to fix that,” he admits.

Ross sighs. “It’s not your fault, Smith. You can’t really fix it, you know. He can’t help doing that any more than you can keep quiet when provoked. You two are both very stubborn when it comes down to it.”

“You love us, though, right?” Smith gives him a small grin

“Yeah, I guess...sometimes I don’t know how I put up with you two.” He smiles for a moment. “In all seriousness, it’s hard when neither of you see things how I see it. That certain things are no fault of your own. But I love you both. Whether we are together or not, we were friends first- that means working with people. No one’s going to be reasonable all the time. I know I’m not, either.”

Smith thinks about the things they’ve worked through all these years, silently thankful that Ross is the patient one. Before he knows it, he’s eaten most of his soup.

“Done eating?” Ross asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yeah.” Smith hands Ross the remaining soup back, and smiles when Ross starts to polish it off.

“What? I haven’t eaten yet, this is good soup,” Ross replies.

Smith rolls his eyes. “Progresso, only for the richest of grad students.”

Ross smiles. “Gonna miss this in space, mate.”

“I don’t know about you, but I can’t _wait_ to eat powdered food,” Smith snarks back, “Up there it’s a delicacy.”

Ross shakes his head. “That’s the one thing I don’t look forward to in space- the food, and the zero G. I doubt it’s going to be a good combination.”

 

“Hey, Trott?” Smith asks, getting his attention.

Trott hums, looking up from the book he was reading at Smith’s bedside. “Yeah, sunshine?”

“Trott, I, um. I want to say something.” Smith fiddles with the ice pack on his face.

Trott raises his eyebrow and gives him the go ahead.

“I’m sorry. For...well, fighting. And it’s not your fault, you know. Those assholes are always going to be assholes. Just because I got my ass kicked doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have told me off,” he says.

Trott sighs sadly. “I don’t like to see you hurt.”

“I know.” Smith smiles sympathetically. “You can’t protect me from all the bullies, though. You can’t blame yourself if you’re not there.”

Trott doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“You _shouldn’t_ blame yourself, you know,” Smith says gently.

Trott looks away. Outside the bedroom window, big fluffy white snowflakes fell from the sky. Lake effect snow only looked pretty in the air in Chicago- on the ground it just looked like disgusting gray slush. “I know. But I don’t know that I can’t, Smith,” he says quietly.

“I know,” Smith replies.

When Trott looks back, Smith reaches out, and takes his hand.

“Whatever happens, we’re in this together. Not alone. Remember?” Smith reminds him.

Trott smiles and squeezes his hand gently. “I remember.”

“You, and me, and Ross...we’re all in this. Equally.” Smith squeezes his hand back and raises his hand to his lips to kiss it. “Try to remember that, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ross fears being too hesitant, Trott fears that he’s not good enough/not as good, Smith fears losing it all/all his hard work will prove fruitless.
> 
> Trott likes the snow, Smith doesn’t, Ross doesn’t care


End file.
